She was the kind of girl that men put pen to paper for-
Made immortal in ink and song-
The beautiful stranger held the soul of a muse-
Yet those fingers would never leave the ivory keys
To find the right notes in the notches of her spine-
The whispered sonnets would never grace her collarbone
So sweetly as they would but a breath away from
Some coffee shop microphone.
She would never know the feel of calloused hands
Playing her like a guitar,
Or falling asleep next to her lover
Who still smelled softly of acrylics and turpentine-
She was the kind of girl they loved to love,
But only ever from afar.